


Round and Round The Garden

by rare_colours



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, but it really isn't, could be interpreted as non-con, slight crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:03:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rare_colours/pseuds/rare_colours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are back at Baker Street after Reichenbach, but a few nights after the move back in John realizes that something is not quite right.</p>
<p>Basically this started as "Sherlock is back and keeps jumping John's bones, who tries to talk about it but never gets the chance... so he ends up going with the flow".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> All right, I do NOT consider this non-con. John, while he is clearly attacked, has no problem with the act itself, only he would like some input about the whole thing... that's my take. Still, I did add the warning in the tags so... you've been warned.
> 
> I don't have a beta or a Brit pick (and these days I'm living on cold medicine, black tea and no sleep), so feel free to scream if you a) noticed errors, b) liked it anyway.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

John wonders when his word collided with an alternate universe and left him in the wrong one, because this, he is certain, is not how things used to be.

The first time it happens, he is in bed, woken up from a nightmare and there is a shadow in his room that’s not supposed to be there, tall and silent and moving from its point next to the open door.

“Sh’lock?” he asks, his voice hoarse from disuse, still not sure he is not dreaming.

Of course he doesn’t get an answer. Instead the shadow moves closer, into the spot of wan light falling from the window, slithering onto John’s bed. And that wakes him up, because feeling the bed dip under a very realistic weight, knowing it’s Sherlock in his bed… he is not really sure what is happening.

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?” he asks again, and clings to the sheets reflexively, because Sherlock is on his knees between his legs pulling them off. And that… that is very very weird.

In the end John gives up the silent tug of war, letting go with a sigh and a quiet “All right then, tell me when you’re ready.” But when Sherlock shuffles forward, trapping the covers under his knees and moves his hands, those impossibly white, long fingered hands and grabs John’s pyjama bottoms, John squeaks like a toy mouse.

“Sherlock what the hell is wrong with you?!” he tries again, voice sounding not at all high pitched and crazed, not at all, thank you very much. He tries to cling to the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, clawing them when they slip an inch, body flailing when Sherlock jostles the bed. For a moment his hands let go in reflex and that’s all Sherlock needs really, and then there is a flash of pale, silvery blue and a glimmer of ginger curls (Sherlock had to dye his hair for some reason, and he looks good, so ridiculously good with a head full of just-about-to-curl ginger locks)… and then−

And then there is _heat_.

For a moment John’s eyes roll back, and he finds himself flat on his back with his hands grasping the sheets as Sherlock effortlessly, artfully, masterfully sucks him off.

He can still remember that clever tongue, the barest hint of teeth, those long, clever fingers cradling his balls, and then the explosion, his fingers tangled in the ginger curls as he comes and comes and comes. Until he comes down from the high.

He tries to blink his eyes open, to see past the haze, dimly feels as he is… oh Christ, he is being licked clean, and then his pants are pulled back on effortlessly, he is tucked back under the covers. “Uhmm... Sh’lock… we need to _talk_ ,” he tries, he really, really tries, but sleep is pulling him under again. He feels the bed spring back as a weight is removed and hears the floorboards creak. And then there is sleep, blissful, perfect sleep.

 

 

Next morning, John wakes up to a relaxed body and a mind numb with terror. He is not exactly sure he hasn’t dreamed up the whole thing. Maybe it’s just the way his mind dealt with all that Sherlock is back business, of his best friend and deep, dark secret crush not being dead after all, but… he is not sure. For almost an hour he frets, terrified of the fact that he will have to go down and ask Sherlock, Sherlock if he… oh God… He can’t even think it. He can’t even fathom the idea that Sherlock has… if Sherlock has… if he has given John a blowjob.

He spends another half an hour trying to work out how to ask Sherlock. If it was all a dream, he shudders to think it will be written on his face what he dreamt about, and wouldn’t that be fun, Sherlock finally getting a clue… or maybe being unable to ignore a clue he very politely did not mention so far,

No, John decides, Sherlock wouldn’t, because he had to beg John for weeks, more than a month to move back in together. He would not mess it all up just because John dreamed… no. Definitely not. It’ll just be a simple question then, John decides. _Hey, Sherlock, have you been to my room last night? Funny thing is, I had this dream…_

Yes, that would suffice, John decides, and opens his door. He steels himself as the nears the bottom of the stairs, craning his head to sneak a peek at the living room.

Sherlock, as is his habit, is laid out on the couch, arms and bare feet hanging off, decked out in pyjamas and a green silk robe. They are all new, most of Sherlock’s things having been given away to goodwill, but it still stops John in his tracks, this image that looks just like old times. For a moment, the feelings are overwhelming.

This is probably why he misses the moment Sherlock’s head turns towards him, eyes sharp, face betraying nothing, staring. They stare mutely at one another for a long minute, until Sherlock turns back to contemplate the water stains on the ceiling… or the spider webs. John has never asked before, and he has better things to ask right now. So he steels himself once again and as casually as he can, he strides to his armchair and sits down facing Sherlock.

“Sherlock? “ he prompts and has to bite his tongue. He was planning to sound inquisitive, certain, in control. Instead he sounds hesitant and scared. This won’t do. He clears his throat, licks his lips nervously. It’s a tick, but normal, all normal. He has to sound normal, or he’ll lose his mind. Try again. “Sherlock. Are you listening?”

“Yeees John.” Comes the response, breathy and elongated, like a purr, but very much Sherlock. That’s good. Very good in fact. John sighs in relief. It must have been a dream then.

Still, he needs to know. Has to know, or his brain explodes. Deeep breaths, Watson. Good, he feels normal, so he asks before he panicks, “Uhm… have you been to my room last night by any chance?”

There is movement on the couch, an eyebrow is arched, a pale eye slides to stare at John. “Yes, John.”

He is quite certain he is hyperventilating a bit there. “You, um, you sure? Because last night I thought you came to my room and…” he can’t finish the sentence. He feels his ears burning, his fingers are clenched tight on the armrests of the sofa and he just. Can’t. Move. Even. A finger. He is terrified. This can’t be real. There must be something wrong.

“Yes, John?” comes the prompt from the couch, and this time both of those pale, silver eyes are focused on him. The rest of the body is still lying limp on the couch. So John tries to quell his panic.

He must have imagined it all, John tells himself then. He must have somehow dreamed it all up, seen Sherlock, maybe Sherlock came in to calm him down after that nightmare (god, the fall, always the fall) and he fell back into a dream that… yes, that must have been it.

Only Sherlock is still staring, with a small, amused smile. John swallows. “Never mind. Must have been my imagination,” he offers quietly and moves to stand, only Sherlock is swinging his feet around, sits up, steps over the coffee table.

And John must be still dreaming, there must be something seriously wrong with his head, with his world, because Sherlock is down on his knees again, and John is trying to bat clever fingers away from his flies and fails, because shell shock is slowly settling in.

“Sh-Sherlock! What the hell? Bollocks, will you stop it you berk!” He realizes his voice is high again, hasn’t been this high since school… no, since last night and oh, dammit, no, don’t go there! He feels his fingers caught softly and steered away and he just. He can’t.

The sound of his zipper is so loud in the room it sounds obscene, but not as obscene as the sound John makes when those clever lips slide down around his cock or the soft little wet noises Sherlock makes when he sets the rhythm.

Last night it was too dark to see everything clearly, but now John can look, and he is scared to, but he has to. So he does in a sort of horrified fascination, because he knows he has surely gone round the bend this time, he does. He sees the shiny ginger curls, the soft pale skin of Sherlock’s forehead and oh god… Sherlock’s eyes, those impossibly pale eyes are fixed on him. Just him. Even when one hand goes around the base of his cock, another sliding under the waistband of his pants, and it starts to cut into his skin a little but it’s all right, god it’s better than all right because Sherlock’s mouth is perfect, his tongue so clever…

John’s not exactly sure when his head falls back or when his eyes slip closed or even how his hands end up in Sherlock’s hair again, but once again he comes with his fingers tangled in short curls and his vision greys out.

He twitches half-heartedly when he is cleaned and put away efficiently. His zipper and button done up in seconds and Sherlock stands up and turns away already moving towards his room and that’s bad. Very bad for some reason, only John needs to get his brain back into his head because it has pooled on the floor in the last couple of minutes.

It takes him long minutes to get his bearings back, but when he does he is up, halfway across the room and trying Sherlock’s door, but it’s closed. Of course it's bloody closed. The bastard has locked his room and John is slowly losing his mind.

“Sherlock, open the door!” he yells, and he notices the slight hysteria seeping in.

“Sorry John, I need to sleep.” Comes the muffled reply. There is some sort of soft noise, maybe a body hitting the bed, some clatter going on, and then, when John desperately wants to object, “I’ve been up 39 hours.” Sherlock adds quietly.

And John, as bewildered, terrified, hysterical, utterly, completely confused and really, simply a big bag of nerves is, he still doesn’t have the heart to wake Sherlock and demand an explanation right this second.

Instead he slips down, back against Sherlock’s door, head in his hands and he quietly, efficiently comes unhinged.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the power of tea is not enough, John turns to beer and has an epiphany.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no beta, still no Britpick, so I still am happy with any input you wish to make. :)

John comes to when he realizes his backside has fallen asleep. He hasn’t worked out anything, really, he has been going round and round in circles. The conclusion is that either he has gone mad, or Sherlock has gone mad… or quite possibly the world has gone mad.

Either way he can’t deal with this right now. He is not working today, but he cant, just can’t stay in the flat a door away from Sherlock, with the memory of _that_ … No. When tea can’t solve his problems, and talking won’t solve this because no, he can’t imagine talking to Mrs Hudson or Greg… Christ Greg! Or hell, even Mycroft. John toys with the idea for a second. _Hey Mycroft, do you know what happened to Sherlock? That nutter sucked me off last night and today too just before breakfast. Maybe you should have a talk with him?_

_No._ Definitely no Mycroft. The mental image alone scars him for life. He really, truly doesn’t need an umbrella permanently wedged up his fundament. Or black cars chasing him down the streets of London. Or agents trying to poison his morning tea. The list goes on.

There is only one solution to this problem. There is only ever one solution to issues of this magnitude, so John pulls his shoes on, finds his money and his coat and goes to the nearest pub he and Greg hang out sometimes. Because really, when tea can’t do it, enough beers should, for a short while.

After the count of beers move to the double digits, the whole thing gets a new meaning. For one, John gets over his mortification and realizes that even though Sherlock attacked him, there was no… not even the hint of reciprocation. If he weren’t so shocked, he would have realized it sooner maybe, but still, Sherlock has never indicated that he wished some sort of help on his end.

It should have been John’s clue for things being very, very wrong. This must mean something very serious in sherlockian. He just hasn’t realized what, yet. So John drinks more in case it garners him even more clarity, until he is trying to convince a barstool that his flatmate is really just a very confused individual. Wherein he is kindly told to maybe go home because he had quite enough.

And this sounds like a brilliant idea, so John rights himself, rights himself again when the chair he used as leverage slides out from his hands and wobbles to the door. He feels confident in himself, he now knows he will work it out somehow, but he is not sure how he ended up further away from the flat than the pub was. There really must be something wrong with the world after all.

It takes him several tries to get home. He can’t call a cab, he doesn’t want to splurge on it now, and he doesn’t even want to ride in things in this state. He's not sure it'd be wise. He reckons the brisk London air will do him good. Probably.

He gets home in the end. It only takes him a couple of tries to get his key in the lock – he had some practice two years ago, but… _no_. He doesn’t want to go there, not now when Sherlock is back, alive and confusingly sexual. John has to stop for a minute or two and contemplate the skill with which Sherlock brought him off, because that was… that was very good. And now he has to will away the erection because he is standing just inside with a clear view of Mrs Hudson’s door and wouldn’t it be horrifying is she walked out right now seeing John in the state he is clearly in. Because of Sherlock. Because of _Sherlock’s mouth_. Oh god, stop it!

John groans, takes a few deep breaths and tries the stairs.

It’s an adventure, trying to get home. He used to have a trick for it – have Greg haul him up, but Greg is not here, thank god, because that would be inconvenient if Sherlock jumped him right then. Stop that, Watson, get a grip, he chides himself. He should be concentrating on what he would tell Sherlock not on… yes, yes, talk. Not the other stuff. Just talk.

He is through the door, finally through with the perils of the steps, but then his fingers are grasping empty air. 

“Where did the door go? It was here just seconds ago. Oh hi, Sherlock!” he chirps. He never chirps. He wracks his brain for the speech he has sort of composed on the way back, but it scatters to pieces right on his tongue when Sherlock moves bodily into him and presses him up against the closed door.

“You left, John.” Is all he says, but his voice, Christ, his voice. It sounds like it’s been torn out of him and John can’t help but hug him tight.

“I went to the pub. You know. To think. But I’m back now. I thought you were sleeping?” he asks as an afterthought, because when Sherlock drops asleep after days of being up he sleeps for a day at least not just… John has no idea how long it’s been. “Are you all right?”

“You left me,” Sherlock mumbles into John’s ears, his nose nuzzling the hair at John’s temples, hands clasping John’s coat in a death grip. And really, John has no idea how to respond to that.

Instead he just raises his arms as high as the hands clasping him let that happen and pats Sherlock awkwardly on the back.

For long minutes they just stand there, Sherlock clutching at John like a giant teddy bear, John having no idea how to deal with this… whatever this is, when he feels Sherlock slipping. For a terrible moment he thinks Sherlock must have fallen asleep right there, but then he chances a look at Sherlock’s face and _oh_. John scrambles to grab his arms and hauls him bodily up, up so they can finally sort it out, but what comes out of his mouth instead of _This has to stop Sherlock_ , is this, “We do this together Sherlock, or not at all, dammit!”

The shock he must be feeling is reflected right back at him on Sherlock’s face as the younger man stares at him, trying to read him. Probably, John muses, he is. And then there are lips on his, wet and insistent and a body moulded to his, pushing him into the door and he is so very very glad the door knob is not in his back because this… he has been dreaming about just this for so long. John can’t help but let out a moan, because really, this is exceptional, brilliant, perfect, quite possibly the most longed-for kiss he's ever had. And then he hears Sherlock, who, probably using John as an example, lets out his sounds and that deep voice just drives John mad.

He slides his legs apart for better leverage, because he really doesn’t wish to fall over during this, and almost immediately Sherlock follows suit, a warm, smooth thigh insinuates itself between John’s and John has to wriggle around a little bit until he can properly return the favour and then they are moving, rubbing and kissing, John clutching at those bony shoulders, right hand going to the head of curly hair, fingers stroking the tip of an ear as his cock is rubbing just so on a perfect, pyjama-clad thigh and John is seeing brilliant stars as his head drops back and hits hard wood.

Sherlock breaks the kiss, stares at him for a second while his body is still moving insistently against John’s, and then there is a warm palm sliding between the door and John’s head, cradling it gently, so carefully it steals John’s breath and he can’t help but let out a soft “oh, Sherlock.” Something flickers in those pale silver eyes and then his mouth is on John’s throat, licking, sucking, biting gently and John’s eyes roll back.

It doesn’t take John long to come, he clutches at Sherlock, eyes staring up unseeing at the ceiling as he rides that thigh, _Sherlock’s thigh_ , feels Sherlock rub against him in return, mouth sucking patterns on his throat until the rhythm stutters to a halt. John hears a soft, deep groan, and really, that’s all he needs before he too comes hard in his pants.

Somehow they both manage to stay upright, panting and sticky. Sherlock nuzzles the side of his face, eyes hidden. John can’t help but feel that there must be a reason for that. But he still feels the buzz of so many beers and the knowledge that at least he has cornered Sherlock to take something for himself as well, and small victories are good. They are very good. And apparently also sticky.

Slowly he comes from the high, his fingers unclenching from their place around Sherlock and he fully intends to talk it out with Sherlock, but once again, he doesn’t get much further than “Sherlock, can we finally talk now?”

Before he is shot down as the younger man twists away, out of his arms without any effort. “Sorry John, I need to take some new soil samples. Someone has thrown out my old ones,” he says this with gentle reproach and for a second John feels guilty.

“Hey!” he complains, because really, Sherlock was dead, dead dead and what was John supposed to do? But he is arrested by the sight of Sherlock peeling his pyjama bottoms off right there in the middle of the living room, making a face at the mess around his groin and throws the offending garment… into John’s armchair. The prat.

“Honestly John,” he complains “I have no idea how you can stand this mess. My way was much more efficient.” And with that he goes to the bathroom, closes the door and John hears the shower start up seconds later.

John, who is still quite a bit drunk, confounded by these turn of events and quite a bit sticky in places he is not too keen on being while still dressed, just sits down on the couch and stares at the pyjama bottoms lying innocently in his armchair.

There is still something going on, something new and strange, he is still completely at a loss of how to solve it, but at least they are making progress. Some progress, he amends as he feels the mess in his pants cooling and the material clinging to him in a way that makes him twitch.

Maybe after he sobers up and Sherlock has his soil samples they could have that conversation. He is quite certain he needs some answers, even though this, right here, when it’s mutual and fun and Sherlock is alive and well and otherwise quite normal… is a bit good for the time being.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John naps some, Sherlock trails mud all over the flat, but maybe neither of them is crazy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the late update, I've managed to catch the mother of all colds and the amount of meds I'm taking is staggering - and sometimes it feels like my head is stuffed full of pink candy floss

He ends up napping a bit, because he only jerks awake when he hears the front door snap shut. Sherlock’s coat is absent. The pyjama bottoms have not been moved from its place in his armchair. He stares at the offending garment for a while, but it refuses to shine any light on its owner’s newest strange habit. John is not surprised. He is not Sherlock Holmes, he can’t read an entire life’s story in a tilt of a head or a crooked bowtie.

He moves to stand, but it appears Sherlock has moved something else, because there is a warm blanket draped haphazardly over him, which is oddly touching. And it’s the biggest revelation John has had about the entire issue of Sherlock’s sanity since this whole _thing_ started. The Sherlock _before_ would never have done that. Something, John knows, has definitely changed in John’s favour, and it’s good to know. Because maybe Sherlock isn’t acting like a lunatic, there might just be a pattern there. John doesn’t like to feel conceited, but this time he dares to think all this has been Sherlock’s way of showing interest. Even though the utter nutter refuses to talk about it, he is still very, very caring.

John remembers that soft touch a few moments, maybe an hour ago (depending on how long he napped) when he hit the back of his head on the door and Sherlock’s hand insinuated itself between his abused skull and the wood, cradling John’s head gently, as if it were important evidence. That was definitely out of the norm of the old Sherlock, who wouldn’t have stopped what he was doing just because John got a scrape. Well maybe if it was a more serious injury he would have told John to call an ambulance and abandoned him, but the point is, John realizes, is that this time, Sherlock cared. About John. His whole focus was on John. Which is new. And a staggeringly heady revelation… And all right, maybe a little bit terrifying in itself, but not something John should be worried about.

Well all right, he amends, he shouldn’t worry about Sherlock’s sanity, but maybe for his heart. Because try as he might, the only other person who ever held so much of Sherlock’s interest was dead. Or at least was, if he could still trust Mycroft’s intel. People came back from the dead all around him in alarming numbers. John was sort of amused with himself at how easily he could think of _her_ not being dead. Because he needs to admit, while she was around, John was terribly, impossibly, frighteningly jealous. Because dammit, John was here first. But not now. Now he is exasperated, true, with Sherlock, worries for that big brain of his so much it hurt, and still a bit (a lot) hurt about that two year long lie, but not jealous.

John, just a little bit, is happy. He is happy that he can touch… if he can touch. He will have to remember to try it. Once Sherlock comes back with the samples, he will have to try it. Obviously, trying to pry anything out of Sherlock is a lost cause, it might end up in Sherlock leaving (bad) or Sherlock performing wonderful, masterful sexual acts on John’s person ( ~~good~~ very good, but unhelpful) so John will have to be careful. He will just have to find out if Sherlock is amenable to receive anything from John.

And John, as happy as he is now that he has at least a vague idea of how he should proceed, is still a bit worried. Because the alternate, that Sherlock just simply snapped is still a possibility. But that is not something he wants to consider now, because that’d mean calling in Mycroft. And it’d also mean the shattering of his fragile good mood that he hasn’t been having for a long, long time now. So he settles down better on the sofa, Sherlock’s sofa, and curls up for a nap until his crazy flatmate and _lover_ comes back with soil samples, so John can finally conduct some experiments of his own.

He has no idea what wakes him in the end. He can see the glow of the kitchen lamps, lumps of mud on the floor that he knows _he_ will have to clear up because Sherlock never cleans up after himself, but he is not really annoyed about it. He is already used to Sherlock being in his life again, which is nice. Also, his head doesn’t hurt yet, which is a blessing. Tomorrow, he will hate himself.

He folds the blanket and uses the loo. Also, he washes his teeth, because he hasn’t forgotten about the experiment he is about to conduct, he looks forward to it quite a bit. Until he catches his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He stares at the carnage that used to be his neck and has to clench his teeth. He doesn’t own any shirts that would cover that. Maybe he could get away with the sore throat excuse and wear a scarf. _Sherlock’s scarf_ , he thinks with a grin. His image in the mirror grins back at him.

This is why he is not put out by the sight of jars and jars of what appears to be the same mud strewn all over their kitchen table, the table they use to _eat_ off of. Instead he puts a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and doesn’t remove it when it tenses imperceptibly.

“Did you find everything you wanted to?” he asks when Sherlock doesn’t react in any other way.

The shoulder moves as Sherlock reaches for the next slide, but John doesn’t move his hand away. Instead, growing bold that Sherlock hasn’t shrugged him off or told him to pester someone else, moves his fingers slowly up to that long pale neck, which shivers under his touch. Sherlock pauses as he fits the slide in, waiting, so John doesn’t stop until his fingers are tangled in the curls he loves so much.

“The roots are growing out,” he comments quietly. He doesn’t know why he is so happy about that, he likes this new look on Sherlock, he feels it makes him look less severe, more approachable, but perhaps it’s just the younger man that has changed. But to see Sherlock with his full head of dark curls, he never thought he would ever wish for that so fervently.

He sees Sherlock’s hands lie to rest on the table. “Yes. I believe I will have to make an appointment with a hairdresser soon.” His voice is quiet, guarded. John is not sure if it’s a good or a bad thing yet.

“Which colour will it be then?” he ends up asking as he twirls a lock absently, noting how springy it is. He never had the chance to just touch Sherlock’s hair before, and he mourns every lost opportunity now.

He has to step back the next second when Sherlock swivels around and pins John with a stare. “The original.” He states quietly. “Unless you have a problem with that?”

“What?” _What?_ Was Sherlock Holmes asking for _his_ approval on his hair colour choices? John has to stop himself from stepping back in surprise. The hand he jerked away from Sherlock’s head he now rests at the base of that white neck, thumb moving to stroke a tendon, and he actually sees those silvery eyes go wide and vulnerable. “No. No problem. I was just wondering. That’s all.”

He is still staring into Sherlock’s eyes, that’s why he doesn’t notice that a hand is being lifted, until it’s resting on top of his.

“John?” Sherlock asks, and it sounds so vulnerable he doesn’t actually know if he has done a good thing or a very bad thing right now.

But he can’t stop now. Finally they are getting somewhere. Finally he has broken through on his end, and he needs to see it through. He needs to know if he was right, if Sherlock wants something with John, something more than what they used to have. His “Yes Sherlock?” is soft and quiet and encouraging.

Sherlock huffs and looks back at his samples. “Did you want something?”

Dammit. Dammit all to hell and back. He sighs in defeat. Ignored for soil samples, it's normal, just when they were finally making some progress. “I just wanted to thank you for the blanket,” he adds in the end.

“Oh.” He only realizes that Sherlock’s fingers are linked in his when he moves to pull his hand back. “You’re welcome, John.”

The silver eyes turn back to his and there is a smile, not the fake smile, or the “I dare you” smile or even the “I am brilliant” smile, but something new and entirely John’s. The next second he is pulled down, strong and insistent fingers curling around his wrist and then around his neck and he is kissed within an inch of his life. Which is fine by John, all things considered.

But then the kiss ends, a little too soon for John’s liking, and he is pushed back, Sherlock turning back to his samples. “Sex will have to wait until I have these organized. I really wish you could have kept my experiments. I’m sure Mycroft told you to save everything.” He is told with reproach, and yes, he can sort of remember that bit, but all John can think of right now… is _success_. Finally success.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> soil is examined and tea is made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so very sorry for the late update! I've been stuck in a hospital for almost a week. I'm still a bit woozy, but will try to pick up the slack!
> 
> For those who are still following the story, I hope you enjoy it! Please feel free to correct me if I wrote something silly, I'm operating with zero caffeine input at the moment.

John can’t decide what he should do. All thanks to Sherlock’s antics his sleeping patterns are messed up (a usual occurrence from before), but instead of running on too little sleep, he’s had extra (very unusual occurrence) and he is feeling restless.

In those days, after the jump but before he moved out of 221B, he ended up dozing off in the living room after he saw one too many bottoms of various bottles. But he doesn’t want to think back at those days anymore. Sherlock is back, safe and sound and John can’t be happier. In fact, he feels like grinning, all the time, at everything, and isn’t that weird?

He wants to go for a brisk walk, but he doesn’t dare in case Sherlock ends up talking to him and John is not there – something that hasn’t happened since the hiatus yet, but still might. And seeing the reaction Sherlock had to John leaving the flat while the younger man was asleep, he is certain he should not do that anytime soon.

Instead, he sits down in front of the telly, trying to find something to watch. He can hear Sherlock puttering around the kitchen, jars clanking, the chair scraping the floor quietly. It is a comforting sound, the knowledge that Sherlock is so close, alive and reachable, that John can walk up and touch that pale neck is a warm and tangible feeling. So he sits in front of the telly watching commercials and shows he can’t remember, listening to the soft sounds of the quiet 221B, something he rarely has a chance to do.

It takes him a while until he feels like having some tea. He tries to put it off, to give Sherlock some space with his samples. He knows it’s stupid to assume he is intruding, if nothing else, the younger man made sure John feels completely at home back in the flat, but it still takes time until the doctor dares to intrude.

Luckily, Sherlock seems oblivious to the intrusion, so John fills the kettle and reaches to shuffle the boxes of tea – _who bought three boxes of cinnamon apple tea?_ – when he feels the warmth on his back. There is a weight against him, Sherlock’s body is deftly pinning him to the cupboards. He feels a clever hand cupping him through his trousers – good god, he just changed his underwear recently, is Sherlock out to ruin every last pair of pants John owns?! He freezes, unsure if he should participate or if Sherlock cornered him because this is the best way to ensure John has limited movement.

He is reassured when he feels Sherlock shift, breath ghosting over John’s ear. “Do you need help with anything?” he drawls and licks oh good god, _licks_ into John’s ear. It still amazes the doctor how this is all possible. He is still half convinced this is all a dream, and this is why he clings to the lower shelf and squirms backwards until he can feel Sherlock flush against his back and _oh_ , Sherlock is definitely interested.

He can feel Sherlock’s length pressed against his spine, hot and heavy. For just a moment John curses his genes for being so short, then Sherlock’s for being part giraffe (with that long neck he can’t ever refute it), and then he reaches back with one hand and rests his palm squarely on Sherlock’s posterior. It elicits a definite twitch and a sigh delivered right into John’s sensitised ear which in turn makes the older man shiver, and his hand grabbing that delicious arse clenches, hoisting Sherlock closer.

John’s “I could do with some black tea” comes out weak and hoarse, not at all like the flippant reply he wanted it to be. And Sherlock, like a shark tasting blood in the water moves in on John’s left earlobe, his fingers cupping the older man’s half-hard cock, stroking deftly. The sound of the zipper still sounds as obscene as the first time Sherlock pulled it down, but John couldn’t care less, because there are fingers, warm fingers squirming in. He also feels a warm, insistent if clothed length pressing against his back, the play of muscles of Sherlock’s buttocks under his fingers and he realizes that in a few short days he has turned into putty in, under and against Sherlock’s clever hands and fingers.

“Take hold of something solid” Sherlock warns him and he instantly obeys, clutching with his other hand at the countertop a few seconds before Sherlock kicks his feet a little bit more apart, which in turn makes room for long, adept fingers that squirm into his pants and oh, this is good too, this is beyond good, because Sherlock seems to be a master at this kind of thing. Who would have thought he would be?

John is only vaguely aware that Sherlock is also squirming, aiming a little lower so he can rub against… Christ almighty, against the top of John’s buttocks, and John can only imagine how it would feel like to have no clothes separating them, to feel skin against hot skin and sweat making the glide so much easier. He tips his head back to rest against a shoulder and that insistent mouth moves from mangling his ear to kissing his forehead mumbling “Yes John, _please_ John” so John does indeed clench his hand on that delicious handful of buttock and pulls more forcefully, middle finger grazing the crease between cheeks and Sherlock jerks like he is being electrocuted.

Which might be a bit nod good, John realizes only seconds later, so he asks “all right?”

The answer is a soft groan and another clench under his fingers, and another and Sherlock is coming, John realizes, so it might be something of a bit very good that John stumbled upon. Which only registers a second before Sherlock does a complicated thing with his fingers in John’s pants and the other hand comes up to cradle and nuzzle John’s balls through layers of cloths and John is undone, dirtying his second pair of pants under a day.

If it felt less good John might have given it some serious thought, but all he can think about right now is that this, Sherlock making various surprise attacks on his person, might not be such a bad thing after all. And also, that the kettle is boiling.

There is a tentative shuffle while Sherlock finds the brand of tea John prefers right now, and then it is dropped into a mug John is certain they didn’t have before. It is a nice mug, albeit painted a light pink, with an anatomical heart printed on it. And the heart is still bleeding.

John is kissed on the forehead, fingers are pulled out of his trousers, the weight pressing him into the counter moves away, and there is a soft grunt that sounds like “a right mess”. The doctor doesn’t really care though, because _well_ … What does one say to something like _this_?

Instead he pours hot water into his new mug and lets it steep while he goes up into his room to change into clean underwear and pyjamas.

Sometimes, he reflects as he is sipping his lukewarm tea in front of the telly a while later, one just needs to go with the flow.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a bit of domestic bliss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I am very sorry for the late update. Real life and side effects of the meds I'm still taking are a tad bit distracting.
> 
> However, I have not abandoned this fic, I have the ending already written and yeah, next chapter will include some Mycroft so... the end is near, so to speak. :)

He ends up watching crap telly until the early hours of the morning. Since he knows he should sleep even just a little if he wants to be functional at the clinic today, he trudges up to his room to catch a few hours of sleep.

On his way up he catches the harsh glow of the kitchen lamps and Sherlock’s silhouette crouched over the microscope, not unlike a mad scientist from any number of sci-fi movies and TV shows. It’s probably strange that he feels this to be a comforting view. But for now, 221B feels like a home to him once again with the smell of chemicals, the light on at crazy hours, and the madman in the kitchen running probably-safe experiments on severed body parts.

He does think of calling out to Sherlock, but thinks better of it. The younger man was rather adamant about his samples and experiments, and John is sure his stamina has been putting up a heroic effort, but another round at this time is just not possible if Sherlock’s attention were to be directed at him.

Instead he tiptoes around, making sure to step around the creaky floorboards and steps. He does need his sleep, he reasons as he showers and washes his teeth. He also avoids looking into the mirror as much as possible, already forming plans to pay back Sherlock in full. All that neck without any markings while John gets mauled? Oh, John now has a plan. A plan he will put in motion, once he’s had some sleep.

His bed is blissfully soft and inviting, and he doesn’t even think to close his door. Sherlock has better things to do, and John is reasonably certain he will be left alone.

 

Still, he is not surprised in the least when in the pale light of dawn a cold body worms its way under his covers, moulds itself against John’s and a pair of _really cold_ feet are tangled into his, leeching every warmth they can. There is some squirming going on, quite a lot of it, until John puts an arm around the body and uses the best commanding voice he can come up with still half-asleep. “Just sleeping, all right?”

His only answer is a huff and a nuzzle just under his jaw, and then he feels the tightly strung body go lax in his arms, breath evening out into a slow, steady rhythm. So John wriggles around a little, careful not to jostle the limp, warmth leeching madman currently sharing his bed, and once he is comfortably settled, goes back to sleep with every intention of some nice late morning sex and heavy mauling of a certain pale, long neck in the very near future.

 

John wakes up with only a few moments to spare before he has to leave for the clinic, bed empty save for its usual occupant. Sherlock, it seems, has found something more amusing than John and wandered off. Also, apparently, Sherlock has taken his alarm clock. John feels soft exasperation and a dose of annoyance. Just a normal morning then. 

He runs to get shaved and dressed, he will have to go to Speedy’s for some quick breakfast and coffee to go. He is putting his shoes on when he spots the younger man. Once again, Sherlock is sitting at the kitchen table, bent over a new experiment.

 

“You know,” he starts, amused to see the detective jump in apparent surprise at the sound of John’s voice “most people consider it a grave social faux pas to leave the bed while your partner is not awake yet.” He informs Sherlock.

This is possibly the worst thing to say he realizes the next moment when Sherlock twists around to look at him, his eyes wide and panicked. John, while giving himself the mother of all mental kicks, flails around. Because Sherlock, while not bending to social rules if he can get away with it, knows them. He can even fake it if he feels like it. John is certain he hasn’t mentioned a new one this time, so _why_ is Sherlock acting like he −

“John, I’m sorry,” he says before John can say he doesn’t give a toss as long as Sherlock can be found in the flat or even out as long as he can be messaged, because John is still a bit raw about the whole back from the dead business and he needs to know with certainty that Sherlock is here, alive and well. But the detective is saying this with such quiet anguish that John is not quite sure how he should go about fixing this.

So instead of thinking he crosses the room to lean down to kiss Sherlock’s stunned face good morning. It’s just a peck on the lips, John might have washed his teeth, but he would bet his breakfast Sherlock hasn’t washed his before swanning down here to look at the blasted mud samples, but the eyes are now guarded instead of terrified when he steps back.

“I’m not generally one of them,” John quips. “I am well aware I have to share you with soil samples and fungi patterns, not to mention severed heads in the fridge. Although,” he smiles at Sherlock, who seems to be amused now, and John should be _jealous_ , because that damn head is stealing his boyfriend, if Sherlock would be willing to consider that term, “you should maybe try just awake morning sex sometime. It’s quite nice, but requires two people in the bed. Otherwise, it’s just a really sad affair.”

Sherlock swivels back to his samples and bubbling new experiment (and all right, that one should be a little bit alarming) without any warning. John is not worried now though. The younger man needs to know he is still accepted, even though it’ll be a lot of work. Apparently, Sherlock is full of insecurities. John should have known, has known deep down, but he was used to _Sherlock before_ , who easily slipped in and out of personalities and ignored every and all jibes amied at his person, but never once showed real vulnerability like this new one does any time of the day.

He has already put his shoes on and is in the process of snagging Sherlock’s new blue scarf off the hook, when Sherlock turns his head slightly. “Next time, we could try that,” he says quietly before reaching for the next slide.

John has to clear his throat twice before he can answer. “Sure. Sure, we could.” And he is proud that his voice is strong, because his knees are suddenly weak. Sherlock, in _his_ bed, in the pale sunlight with his neck marked with bites from the bottom of his ears to his collarbones. He is tempted to call in sick to stay in and do just that… but no. He needs the money, even though he is working regular shifts now, and also, Sherlock could use the time to get comfortable with the idea.

So instead he asks, “Sherlock, do you need me to buy anything on my way back?” It gets him a grunt, which he really shouldn’t find endearing at all. “All right then, if you want something, text me. I will come back toward Tesco’s.”

And if he leaves with a spring in his step and a grin on his face as he ties the stolen scarf that smells distinctly like Sherlock around his neck… well, that neither here nor there.

 

By noon he is regretting he offered to shop for Sherlock. He has received a dozen or so texts, ranging from “get milk – SH” while he was organizing his files, to “lubricant, if you please − SH” while he was trying to describe to an irritated young mother how best to use a suppository on her screaming 12 year old.

He can’t help but go slack-jawed at the latest message “carrots and cucumbers, a handful of each – SH” and the harried looking mother gives him a glare. He ends up locking his phone into his desk drawer before Sherlock drives him mad. And he absolutely refuses to think about what the detective wishes to do with the lubricant, the carrots and the cucumbers. In all the time they’ve lived together, he has not yet seen the younger man cook, but it’s best not to jump to conclusions. Probably just another experiment.

 

Predictably, he has to stay in longer because an elderly couple need some advice, so John is already late when he leaves. He only remembers that he has left his phone locked in his desk drawer when he is already across the street, so he hurries back and curses Sherlock again. There are four more unread texts he is not even sure he wants to read so he just sticks his phone in his pocket and resolves to do his shopping before reading any more.

He dutifully selects a few carrots and cucumbers and since he is at the vegetable aisle anyway, a few more greens. Sherlock needs more food in him, so he resolves to cook something that will be healthier than Chinese takeout.

He is at his last stop, selecting lubricant as requested, when he gets the latest message. He takes his phone out of his pocket to read it, “never mind, Mrs Hudson bought some, she’s making stew and salad, hurry home – SH” and he feels relieved and foolish.

Still, as he selects a scentless, nondescript lubricant, he can’t stop reaching for another, that’s advertised as a massage oil as well as… edible. Against all odds, he is intrigued. It’s decorated in garish pink flowing patterns, but the scent is a pleasing strawberry, and really… if Sherlock is allowed to experiment, so is John. So he places that inside the cart as well as a box of condoms. Just in case. He can’t even remember the last time he purchased condoms, and since this thing with Sherlock is still a bit new but going rather well, he wants to be prepared.

Still, when the black car rolls to a stop next to him, he shots a quick, panicked glance at the bag, hoping that neither the lubricant bottles nor the box of condoms can be seen.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has the talk with Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terribly sorry for disappearing like that. I had my reasons tho.  
> I had 2 operations, a couple of hospital stays and the crippling realization that one won't glow in the dark from radiotherapy. That one was a huge disappointment. Could have been useful for late night readings in bed. Oh well.
> 
> Still no beta, still no Brit pick. All comments are welcome, and cherished. :)  
> And I *will* see this fic through.

John waits until the door is open and Anthea climbs out to hold it open for him before he steels himself and climbs in. He only spares one look at the lanky bastard with his manicured hands resting on the handle of his umbrella du jour before he turns back to his shopping, directing the ever preoccupied Anthea to secure the bag without dropping anything. He notes with barely suppressed relief that neither the lube nor the box of condoms are peeking out.

Still, when the young woman climbs in and the car moves he has to look the older Holmes in the eyes. “Mycroft.”

“John,” he inclines his head with his ever present professional smile, and John is reminded of the last time they’ve met in the official capacity. That smile was tinted crimson as the older man held a white, monogrammed kerchief to his split lip. John feels just a tingle of remorse.

They sit in silence, sizing each other up. John has already decided when Sherlock first popped back into his life that he will _not_ apologize for the things he said, nor the well-aimed punch he threw at Mycroft in the wake of the fall. The brothers decided to keep him out of the loop, therefore every last thing he did while being lied to was honest and true… and it served its purpose in spades. Everybody was fooled, all according to plan. John shouldn’t feel guilty.

He almost misses the almost imperceptible shift of Mycroft leaning forward towards John, his smile almost splitting his face. “I must admit it has lifted an incredible weight off my shoulders, knowing that you have moved back in with Sherlock. I believe he needs you now more than ever.”

John can’t stop the blink. It isn’t exactly a tell, but he is sure Mycroft of all people can read him like a book.

“Well, he was starting to scare my neighbours and I didn’t see him stopping anytime soon. Might as well cut my losses, I thought,” he says nevertheless. Showing weakness to Mycroft Holmes is not something he will start doing now.

“I am still glad.” The other man says, and a horrible suspicion seizes John when he realizes Mycroft is telling him the truth. Because this man ever does anything by halves.

He has a feeling he may never get back home. His body will be dragged out of the Thames and he will become just another addition to statistics. For that matter, Mycroft might just cheerfully run him through with his jolly umbrella if he realizes the extent of the activities he and Sherlock have engaged in the last few days.

On second thought, his body will never be found. He chances a short look out of the tinted side window and he is shocked to realize they are going round and round their block. When he looks back, Mycroft is still smiling, maybe even more widely.

“Calm down, doctor. If I did not approve, we wouldn’t be talking now. In fact, you wouldn’t have been rooming with Sherlock all those months ago, either.” The git is twirling his umbrella, staring at it thoughtfully. “You see, Sherlock _is_ very important to me. And even though I let him play with Moriarty, his interest in you has always been… _unique._ ”

He looks up at John, and John knows he has been caught red handed. He is absolutely _sure_ Mycroft has figured out what the shopping bag contains. However, John is not sure if Mycroft intends to disappear him anymore.

In fact, he has no idea why they are circling their block while the milk is slowly going bad in his bag.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” he asks, and almost instantly regrets it. It never pays to show weakness, most of all impatience in front of a Holmes. Generally, they expect one to read minds.

Mycroft, however, looks ever so pleased. “I am saying, I approve, John. You have my blessing, should you wish to explore this newfound closeness with my little brother. I believe I couldn’t have wished for a better person, in fact. Therefore, please stop fretting that I will have you thrown into the Thames or disappear you without a trace. Even if I wished to, Sherlock would never forgive me.”

John can feel the veiled threat in there, but is too relieved to know he will get home on time. If he is lucky, he can even distract Sherlock from deducing that he has met his older brother. He is quite certain Sherlock knowing he spent any time with his arch enemy would mean no sexual favours until further notice.

He manages a nod. His mind, obviously satisfied that it won’t adorn a freshly abandoned construction site, is flooded with images of Sherlock. Apparently he has no self preservation skills. At all.

He clears his throat, “would you like to come up for some tea then?” And he has to fervently hope Mycroft says no, because if Sherlock does something stupid like laze about on the sofa naked, John is sure to end up on the bottom of the Thames anyway.

Mycroft regards him with his polite smile, face still as a porcelain mask. And then he blinks and his smile turns amused, knowing. “Perhaps another time, John, thank you.” He lifts his right hand from his umbrella, and the car stops smoothly next to the pavement, right in front of their building. “Please don’t let me detain you,” he adds, and John knows a dismissal when he hears one.

He steps out, taking his bag of produce with a dazed nod. He is pretty certain he has just dodged a bullet.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> apparently, Sherlock likes strawberry scented lube

He trudges up the steps, glad that at least Mrs Hudson has stayed in her flat. The talk with Mycroft has been mortifying enough. He is craving tea, badly.

He can already see the detective’s prone body splayed on the couch as he carries his bag inside, wincing as he is met with a plastic bag of oozing human eyes on the top shelf. He moves them lower so they don’t drip on the food and tucks everything away.

He half expects Sherlock to come in and drape himself over John’s back, but the detective seems to be otherwise occupied. He tells himself he is not disappointed as he stares at the counter Sherlock has pressed him up against just last night.

No, he decides as he grabs a bottle of pink, strawberry scented lubricant and slips it into his pocket, if Sherlock is not too busy, John might do some experimenting himself.

He walks into the living room and instantly meets Sherlock’s pale, calculating gaze. The detective is still draped over the couch, bare, bony feet kneading the sofa cushions. The grey eyes follow John’s movements as he slips out of his jacket and hangs it out, reaching for Sherlock’s scarf tucked around his neck. _Oh._ He realizes that he sat with Mycroft like that. No wonder the older Holmes took it as a bold statement. John wants to crawl under Sherlock’s sofa. Or maybe just under Sherlock. Mycroft would never reach him there.

“How was the meeting with my brother?” Sherlock drawls, and John has to wince.

“He expressed his pleasure that I moved back in. He also assured me he wouldn’t disappear me.”

Sherlock scowls. “Good.” And he sweeps his eyes over John’s small frame, his eyes softening. “Come here then.”

John goes. He sits on the spot vacated by Sherlock’s feet as the detective pushes himself to a sitting position, all languid grace and soft cotton. The next second he has a lapful of Sherlock and deft fingers are working the bottle of lube out of his pocket. It is held up for inspection, full lips curving into a wicked smile.

“Strawberry, John? Very well then.” Fingers tug at his shirt. “Off with it.”

He shucks his shirt off without complaint, although he planned it the other way around. He still hasn’t seen Sherlock’s body since he’s returned, even though he is anxious to see how many new scars the younger man has collected. Knowing how many dangerous situations he might have been in, John is eager for a chance to inspect his body thoroughly. Maybe do a bit more too.

But apparently, Sherlock has other ideas as John is being cheerfully smeared with strawberry scented massage oil-slash-lubricant. Strong fingers trail to his scarred shoulder, poking and prodding the damaged tissue. It shouldn’t feel as seductive as John thinks it is. The next moment, the detective is leaning down and John can’t help a surprised squawk as he feels the first slide of tongue over his scar. The next moment the fingers slide wetly over his nipples and John’s body goes taut. He hasn’t been overly sensitive, but the mere thought of Sherlock touching him anywhere has already driven him half out of his mind.

After a few moments of concentrated rubbing of John’s nipples the fingers slide lower, smearing a pink, shiny film over John’s skin. Sherlock strokes his soft belly that has been missing Sherlock’s brand of exercise and stops at John’s belt buckle. He taps on it twice for good measure. “Off!” He purrs, and John scrambles to obey.

When he looks up, he is treated to a spectacular view. Sherlock is staring at him, pupils blown wide, lips wet and parted, breath short and shallow. The detective’s cheeks are flushed and he stares at John with unashamed wonder, like this is something he has wanted all his life. John, at that moment, feels such tenderness for the younger man that he has never felt before throughout his Three Continents career. He really hopes he can provide Sherlock with whatever he might want, which spurs him forward as the detective reaches towards his pants.

John’s hands sneak around and grab Sherlock’s hips, palms sliding until he has a handful of arse in both. The younger man, understandably, freezes with his fingers past the elastic of the doctor’s pants at the sneak attack, a frown furrowing between the eyebrows. John has been planning on massaging Sherlock, reaching the tempting swell of that same arse and doing just as much exploring as the younger man would allow, but since control has been wrenched from him, he is content to stroke and fondle the globes, until Sherlock gets his nerve back.

It doesn’t take long. Sherlock grins at him, eyes gleaming, and pushes back against John’s palms, flexing his backside, just as he pulls the doctor’s pants down to introduce his sticky, strawberry scented palm to John’s eagerly awaiting prick. John can’t and won’t contain the full body shiver. He’s been thinking about Sherlock’s long fingers around him since he woke up, all alone in his bedroom with cold sheets on Sherlock’s side.

The younger man wholly distracted, John swipes some of the pink mess off his chest with his fingers and dives under the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjamas, rubbing down in a straight line, until he feels the puckered entrance with his sticky middle finger. He can't help but stare at the sight of Sherlock throwing his head back, the long, pale neck gleaming with sweat as he rubs against John’s prick and his own fingers, whining as John’s finger gets trapped between his clenching cheeks.

“All right?” John rasps, voice but a reverent whisper.

Sherlock is shaking apart right in front of his eyes, hips practically humping John’s trapped prick, hole clenching, fingers dancing in a crazy rhythm on John, jerking him off beautifully. His other hand hits John’s wrist under the waistband and clenches like a wise.

“More”, he begs with a small voice and John’s mind scrambles, trying to work it out if Sherlock wants John’s finger _in_ or just more rubbing.

“Pass me the lube” he instructs in the end, and Sherlock lets go of his wrist to pass it to him, fingers shaking. There is but a sliver of grey on the rim around his huge pupils, mouth open and panting, sweat pasting his locks to his forehead. John has never seen a more beautiful, heartbreaking sight.

He squeezes a few globs of the lube on his thumb, rubbing it over his middle finger and with an annoyed grunt hooks fingers of his clean hand in the waistband and tugs the backside of Sherlock’s pyjamas down with an impatient jerk. For a second Sherlock blinks at him, shocked as the cold air hits his bottom, but the next his lids flutter shut as John parts his cheeks and his lubed finger is back, rubbing at the furrowed skin, burrowing in millimetre by millimetre.

Sherlock quickens the pace of his hand on John’s prick and the doctor has to close his eyes to concentrate, because he is almost there, pushing past the tight ring, almost in with gentle twists and rubbing back and forth. Sherlock, apparently bored with humping against John in small circles, pushes back and John’s finger is in, completely in. The doctor crooks his finger just so, and Sherlock howls, body tensing, arse clenching around John’s finger as he comes and comes, wetting the front of his pyjamas.

John can’t help but stare as Sherlock comes apart, neck muscles tensing, head flung back, thighs twitching around John, the wet spot on the front of his striped cotton pyjamas growing. John hasn’t come yet, the fingers have gone lax around his achingly hard cock, but he doesn’t mind, because Sherlock has gone completely boneless, sweaty forehead leaning on his scarred shoulder as he pants and gasps for air like he has run a marathon. And he is sliding.

John tries to catch him, but Sherlock swats away his arm and sighs as John’s finger slides free. The detective curls around John’s legs and bats away the hand John has curled around himself to nuzzle John’s prick and balls, soft licks in contrast to the suction as he slides John into his mouth.

John seems to have lost his mind, because words tumble out of his mouth, unbidden, calling Sherlock _a beautiful, crazy thing_ repeatedly and begging Sherlock never to leave him and to let John crawl into him and die, pretty please and _soon_.

All in all, when he finally comes, he is pretty sure Mrs Hudson will have a few words with them and the noise they shouldn’t make, because John thinks he could have raised the dead.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some little domestic interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am eternally sorry for the long time you had to wait for an update. In my defense I had a lovely stay at the oncology, though I'm still not glowing in the dark. Nor have I been bitten by a radioactive spider. (a shame)
> 
> Though we had fun, as I had 3 roommates. We had to evict a poor mouse who got in from the garden when we aired the room (the poor, unlucky sod) and ordered pizza to be delivered to our door saying "you really can't miss it, it's the only door that has a huge biohazard sign under a radioactive sign".
> 
> They did in fact deliver our pizza, and it was so very, very lovely. :)

John, for the life of him, can’t move a muscle. He is mostly on the couch, legs and arms spread, the cold air raising goosebumps on his pink, strawberry-smeared skin. He can’t draw his eyes away from Sherlock’s flushed face nor his red, shiny lips. The detective has draped himself on and around John’s formerly bum-leg, curling up like a giant, gangly cat. The younger man has already caught his breath and John would be pulling him up for some post-coital cuddle if he had any strength left in his battered body.

Instead, John sinks boneless against the back of the couch, the leather sticking to his naked skin as he watches the detective idly trace the muscles of his leg with two long fingers. He has no illusions, he knows with absolute certainty the younger man is cataloguing every detail, his bone structure, the elasticity of his skin, the thickness and coarseness of the hair on his legs.

Unfortunately, John is halfway asleep already, the stress from the ride with Mycroft had been sucked out from him (literally as well as figuratively) and all he really wishes for is some cuddle with Sherlock in a clean bed, only they are both rather sticky in places John knows would itch if they do not shower, and soon. But just the thought of a joint shower with the younger man makes his poor, battered body raise the white flag. John knows there is literally no possible way he could come another time within the next hour. Or maybe three. Well, perhaps a day, if he has to be honest. He has no illusions, he is nearing forty.

He raises a hand experimentally, amused to see Sherlock’s alert eyes track its movement. Luckily, he is feeling more in control of his limbs already. John feels confident he can stagger to the bathroom now, if Sherlock will leave him unmolested that long. Unfortunately, the younger man’s track record is less than stellar. Still, John can’t stop the frown when the drying strawberry lube pulls at his chest hair.

“Shower?” The detective prompts even before John had managed to open his mouth.

“That would be lovely.” John nods and fixes him with a level look. “Just washing, right?”

He is rewarded with a huff, albeit an amused one. And then Sherlock rises with a fluid motion that shouldn’t be possible and pulls John to his feet. They stumble a bit, because John’s pants nearly trip him, but he rights himself against the alabaster pectorals and his body gives a valiant try to show some interest in the proceedings.

“Christ, not a word.” John smiles wryly and pulls back to stand on his own. Sherlock, he notices, smirks. But he doesn’t speak.

They leave a trail of clothes behind them to the bathroom, squeezing into the bath with the shower curtains pressed to the side, not quite fitting until Sherlock pulls John closer, reaching past him to open the hot water, nuzzling against the doctor’s neck. And then they suddenly do fit, bony elbows and knees slotting into place with Sherlock working lather onto John’s back with immersed precision. He smoothes his fingers through the raised skin of the doctor’s scar, the bath lily circling lower and lower until John feels the need to turn around and take possession of it or get rubbed raw.

John, now armed with the bright orange bath lily the younger man apparently favours makes quick work on the both of them. He doesn’t care that they both smell like Sherlock’s ridiculously expensive body wash or that the detective is still observing his scar, poking and prodding, no doubt gauging its elasticity while wet. Instead, the doctor turns the water off and handing Sherlock a towel and waiting until it’s around the younger man’s hips, then herds them out, only wincing a little as the cool air surrounds him.

John doesn’t think twice before he goes up the stairs, dressing in comfortable clothes. It is too soon for pyjamas, but not for a dressing robe. It’s not actually Sherlock’s trademark, though it is one of his most used items along with ridiculously high thread count Egyptian cotton and suits at least one size too small, each of them.

As soon as he is dressed he goes back down because he has ignored his body’s other base needs like food and tea, and now his stomach is complaining loudly, but he comes to an abrupt halt as soon as he nears the bottom of the steps.

Sherlock is standing right where he left him, dripping and covered in goosebumps, eyes wary.

“Sherlock? Something wrong?” he prompts. He wonders what he did wrong this time.

“John.” Sherlock blinks, as if realizing where he is standing, but John can see in his stance, the small flannel not hiding his tense muscles, that he is ready to bolt.

“Yes, that’s me, and you’re dripping on the floor, catching a cold.” He chides softly. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock blinks again, thinking a mile a minute, John can tell. But John knows that he needs to wait the younger man out. What comes naturally to most doesn’t come easy at all for the detective.

“I didn’t know. That you’d come back down. I wasn’t sure how to proceed. I don’t have enough data.” He hears the words, low, uncertain, an admission. Sherlock looks to the side as if afraid. And John wants to get closer, to shake the younger man, to tell him that he can always trust him, always trust John to be back down, to want Sherlock. That he needs no more data that that John loves Sherlock and he literally cannot stop himself from migrating to wherever this ridiculous madman is at all times.

“Well then,” he says and clears his throat because he’s gone hoarse. Apparently he’s turned into a soppy sod in his old age, or maybe it’s all that wonderful sex they’ve been having, or maybe, just maybe it’s this new, vulnerable Sherlock he has not yet gotten used to who is making John feel more protective than ever before. Even if he had shot a man not a day after they’d met just to protect that brilliant bugger with no self preservation instincts. “New data for you: I would never willingly abandon you. And also, I’m rather peckish. I haven’t had my evening tea either, and I’d hazard you haven’t had anything to eat all day, unless Mrs Hudson had brought more of her wonderful cooking. Though I have to say we need to have a conversation about hazardous materials and their placement in the fridge.”

Sherlock smiles and leans closer to John before he draws back with a twitch and turn and he stalks away in the direction of his room. John follows him with his eyes, taking in the gangly limbs, all sinew and bone and skin, no fat. He wonders if maybe now he could get Sherlock to take better care of himself. Now that Moriarty is gone and John has been granted a little bigger corner in Sherlock’s world. He has no illusions, but he is cunning in his own right and he has a will of iron, and he will use anything he can to make sure this time Sherlock will be safe.

He goes to the kitchen to investigate the pot of food Mrs Hudson must have dropped off and starts heating it up. He is in the process of finding cutlery and bringing it to the coffee table when Sherlock re-emerges in pyjamas and his own dressing gown. John can’t help the pause, nor the smile that’s splitting his face. The image of Sherlock in such familiar clothing steals his breath and sends his battered heart on a marathon. Just a few months ago he would’ve given everything to see this familiar sight once again. The sight, this particular sight that means _home_ to John more than anything. And something else now, when Sherlock looks at him with a small smile, a smile that the doctor has never seen the detective wear before. John thinks it means affection, perhaps even love.

They have their dinner crouching over the little table, elbows and knees touching. It should be awkward and uncomfortable, but it is anything but. Sherlock only eats bites he steals from John’s platter, which amuses the doctor to no end. He retaliates in kind, stealing carrot slices and potatoes only to see Sherlock smirk and slide his fork forward and quick as a snake steal his last piece of meat. John can’t help but laugh and laugh. He wonders if he should ask for a dozen candles on their table from Angelo the next time they go to protect himself from Sherlock stealing whatever he orders, though he thinks it wouldn’t be much of a deterrent. Most likely the detective would set himself on fire first and really, Sherlock eating would be half the fun of going to any restaurant.

They watch TV then, anything that catches Sherlock’s interest. John doesn’t mind, nothing he wants to watch is on. He is almost dozing when a loud noise jerks him back rudely to wakefulness. He has his head on Sherlock’s shoulder with the detective’s hand twitching idly on John’s knee, seemingly immersed in an old Doctor Who episode. It’s one with angels. The young man scoffs and shuts the Telly off.

“You look tired, John.”

John grins ruefully. “Long day. Let me just clear that up.” He nods at the mess they’ve left on the table.

He cleans the table while Sherlock checks up on his experiments. John doesn’t ask, but as soon as he has put the dishes into the sink the younger man rises and moves closer.

Sherlock is quiet and acquiescent, wordlessly staring for long seconds before letting John lead him up to his own room and turns the covers down.

“I don’t suppose you’ll sleep tonight?” John asks tentatively. He doesn’t want to sound demanding, it is the last thing he wants in the world. He wouldn’t mind, of course, if the young man did catch a few hours of sleep, but he knows him better than that. “I can sleep with the lights on, you know.” He adds as an afterthought.

Sherlock, who had been staring at him with guarded eyes smirks at that. “I don’t require light while I’m in my mind palace.”

“Right.” John nods. “Right then. Which side do you prefer then?” he asks while he strips down unselfconsciously and pulls on his pyjama pants and soft linen shirt. It is a bit threadbare, but both he and Sherlock like worn-in clothing when at home.

The young man makes a vague gesture with his hand, as if saying _be my guest_ and waits until John settles down on the left before he crawls under the covers, all gangly limbs and cold skin.

John is already falling asleep when he hears Sherlock murmur softly from the other side, “I shall endeavour to stay through the morning so you can educate me on the pleasures of just awake morning sex.”

John, whose body is so bloody tired feels wide awake again. “Christ Sherlock! How about you let me _sleep_ first?”


End file.
